


Long Family Tradition

by Bodldops



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodldops/pseuds/Bodldops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eddie doesn't just like Christmas.  Eddie loves Christmas.  Down to the very last detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Family Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niamh_St_George](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I saw the combination of Christmas fic and Monroe and couldn't resist.

It began in June. It always began in June, even before he decided to reform.

In June, he had to test the lights, and make sure there weren't any burnt out bulbs he missed last year when he'd packed all the finery away. He had to start sketching out the design, making sure it was a little different from last year while still containing all of the traditional aspects. This June, he was efficient, completing his self-appointed task by the middle of the month despite a pair of truly disreputable mantlepiece clocks a client had rescued from a cruel previous owner. He rewarded himself with a bottle of aged modena balsamic vinegar.

In July, he had to start checking on the train sets. They were all antiques, exquisite works of art in train form, and all terribly breakable. This year he had three axels to replace, and one engine needed re-wiring to correct corrosion he hadn't seen setting in earlier. He almost didn't make his schedule - a grandfather clock in dire straits had come in at the same time, taking up almost all of his time. Thank goodness for Pilates for saving his sanity. The last of the balsamic ran out in the middle of the month, and he firmly kept himself from buying more. He hadn't earned it, and getting things he didn't earn was just the start of a very slippery slope.

August was the last of the warm summer months, and time to start planning the cookies. So many cookies. He considered it a personal failure if there weren't enough to drown a small toddler.

Mmmm, toddlers. Toddlers in red jumpers and... no.

Just for that thought, even though he had a full cookie inventory planned well before the end of the month, he didn't get himself a reward. Those thoughts were bad, and not something he needed to dwell on. Ever.

In September, he had to get to work in earnest. In his workshop, on a counter separate from his usual clockwork supplies, he started on the the train landscapes. Painstakingly hills were built, and covered in snow in realistic drifts. Small houses were placed, little neighborhoods were formed, with their own snow-covered lawns. The same drive that helped him sort out the tiniest cogs in the most intricate clock pushed him to get the details right in his panorama - after all, he would know if he didn't do it right, and it would ruin everything. September went well, and he gave himself another reward - a jar of French wild mushrooms, and he enjoyed every bite with the happiness of the righteous.

October, he was supposed to find a source for fresh pine boughs of just the right thickness, air out the quilts, and start the deep cleaning his house needed before he could start setting up for the main event.

Instead, he found himself, shockingly, aiding a baby Grimm through his very first creature encounter. Why, he had no idea. They certainly didn't meet on the best of terms, and any _Blutbad_ with any sense would consider moving out of town once a Grimm had caught his scent. But he didn't. He stayed, he showed the Grimm how to hide from one of his own kind, for crying out loud. Maybe that was the special Grimm power, to make otherwise sane people take leave of their senses and do utterly suicidal things. He took stock of his list, sighed, and resolved to do better in November.

He did do better in November, and he was dutifully proud of himself for it. He spent his time between clocks (and, distractingly, cases) catching up with his list and charging on ahead, getting boxes of decorations organized by room, choosing holiday soundtracks...

The Grimm, however, stuck around. His name was Nick. He was... kinda clueless, actually. It was bizarrely adorable, like the way baby tigers were adorable. You know that one day they'll grow into creatures that can rip your face off, but you still laugh at their antics. And he wasn't that bad a guy. He seemed to actually care, which was weird. Okay, so the whole 'please guard dear old Aunt Marie' thing was taking it a bit far (or a lot far, dear old Aunt Marie could still give him nightmares at fifty paces, in a hospital bed or no)  He did feel bad about that guy's arm, honest, but he was under a lot of stress at the time. Nick, despite his caring, and his awkwardness, did bring a lot of unwanted stress into Eddie's life. However, every time he resolved that this was definitely the last time he would ever help the Grimm no matter what, he found himself drawn in again.  He felt... needed.  Appreciated, in an odd, almost back-handed way. 'Monroe, it's _hexenbiests'_. 'Monroe, it's a frog-eating  _Ziegevolk_ who kidnaps lonely women'. 'Monroe, tell me more about the  _Bauerschwein'._ Truth be told, he very nearly threw Nick out over the pigs. Awkward and caring and clueless only got you so far. He didn't, though. He didn't, because awkward and caring might someday be graceful and caring, and wouldn't that be a shocker - a fully fledged Grimm who cared.

He got himself a 40 year old Spanish sherry to console his frustration. It didn't really help. It didn't help when his ex-girlfriend's brother was shot in his front doorway either. After that, he got out the list of rewards and took sherry off of it - clearly, it was just not that good a motivator, no matter how deliciously aged it was. He didn't buy a new frame for the photograph she had left on his doorstep, tucking it instead in the album he kept for these memories that he couldn't let go of, entirely, but were dangerous to dwell on. She was dangerous to dwell on. She was, actually, just plain dangerous.

Then December came, and despite distractions, the Christmas decoration glory he had planned in June came off seamlessly. The trees were a work of art, the stocking was hung with due care over the fireplace, and the pine boughs and fresh cookies made the house smell like a bakery exploded in the middle of a tinseled forest. It was perfect. It was peaceful. It was Christmas, done only as a _Weider Blutbad_ could do it.

"Wow, you... really like Christmas."

Nick just had no idea. Poor, poor unwashed philistine Grimm that he was.


End file.
